


Earthquake

by gauthannja



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Actually drinking so much its a problem, College, Drinking, Dysfunctional Communication, Enthusiastic Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Heartache, Hiruma the homewrecker, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Rebuilding Trust, Stop the wedding!, Trust, and After College, broken trust, but not as much of a problem as when they are sober, sappy romance, star-crossed but possibly doomed, things get worse before they get better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gauthannja/pseuds/gauthannja
Summary: “Did you come here to ask ridiculous questions?” Mamori sighed and faced the mirror again. After all these years, it was impossible that he could suddenly become serious now. Impossible.There was a heavy pause.“To ask this question.”~There had been three times that they let their guard down; three times they were together as more than friends.Each time, one or both of them had been drunk.
Relationships: Anezaki Mamori/Hiruma Youichi
Comments: 41
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

In the mirror above the dressing table Mamori watched the older woman pin a pale cabbage rose in the curl of her low french roll. Beside them an array of flowers lay at the ready, spread across the floor on kraft paper. 

“Hmm, yes, just so. Pretty as a picture.”

The woman adjusted the angle of some smaller blossoms in her hair and decided there was nothing to improve. Though transforming women into blushing brides was her specialty, some barely needed to be adorned for the desired effect.

“Let me go get your mother to take a look,” the woman said, squeezing Mamori’s shoulder with a smile. “Oh, she'll weep when she sees you!”

Mamori returned her smile and remained where she was, seated on a low stool and wrapped up in a cocoon of kimono silks. With all the layers it wasn’t easy to move, and they hadn’t quite finished the preparations yet. Instead she gazed into the mirror, barely recognising the person who looked back at her. 

From downstairs she could hear her mother’s voice, but she sounded upset. Footsteps stomped up the stairs and there was a yelp from the stylist who had hardly stepped foot outside the room before she was shuffling back, obviously avoiding the lanky man who entered a moment later with a Sig Sauer MCX Rattler SBR resting on his shoulder. 

“Get lost,” Hiruma told her, gesturing to the exit with a sharp motion of the gun barrel. It wasn’t that the woman obeyed his command so much as she was already trying to dart away the moment she could find a gap in the doorway. 

When they were alone, Hiruma leaned his back against the doorframe, a hand still on the gun hilt so it rested against his shoulder. He was wearing a shirt Mamori thought she recognized from high school— although it was so worn she could barely make out the skulls it had once depicted— under his usual black leather jacket, despite it being the coldest part of the year. He leveled his gaze on Mamori, taking in every detail. The layers upon layers of silk. The flowers in her hair. The mascara that made the curve of her eyelashes visible even at that distance, and the faint dusting of blush.

“So, you're really going through with it, eh?” 

His voice was as condescending as ever. It was the first time she had seen him since she had announced her engagement. 

She returned his stare, unwilling to be cowed. He had no right to make a scene. “It has been a long time, Hiruma.”

“You look like a snowman. Or a yeti,” he said. “Or a marshmallow.”

Indeed, the uchikake robe that enveloped her, with its puffed edging trailing across the floor, was the colour of fresh snow. The pattern of cranes and plum blossoms— typical symbols of matrimonial luck— appeared only in the shine of the weave. Beneath it, her formal kimono and obi were also pure white, except for a thin edge of powder pink that peaked out between two of the many layers of her collar, somehow bringing out the strawberry tone in her otherwise caramel hair. Red accents would have been more traditional wedding colours. More lucky… aside from also being Devil Bats colours. On the dresser before her the appropriate accessories were ready: a gilded fan, a small purse, and ceremonial dagger clothed in brocade, each with their tassels neatly laid out. Once they were tucked in place at her collar and her waist, their rich peach contrasts would pull the ensemble together in a fresh, modern take on tradition. For the moment, however, she was pale. 

“It’s warm,” was her curt response. “Perfect for a winter wedding.”

He didn't reply, not even with some quip about her ability to strategize. Silence generally meant he was angry. He stared at her, still leaning against the doorframe, grinding his teeth. Mamori pretended to ignore him by inspecting her hair from all angles in the mirror. She could never decide which was worse: when he was easily spouting offensive and unnecessary comments or when he refused to say whatever it was that was clearly weighing on his mind. The former was what made him infuriating. The latter was a tendency that she couldn’t deny sharing. It was perhaps why she had waited so long... 

Eventually he spoke. 

“Do you love him?” 

Mamori shot a glance at him with an exasperated expression. “Excuse me?” 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Did you come here to ask ridiculous questions?” she sighed and faced the mirror again. After all these years, it was impossible that he could suddenly become serious now. Impossible.

There was a heavy pause.

“To ask this question.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am trying something different with this piece than my other Hirumamo works. I hope to have a reasonable posting schedule but some of the later chapters are still in progress. 
> 
> I'm still on the fence about just how explicit the content will be.... I will give you some warnings in the chapter notes as we go.


	2. Chapter 2

There had been three times that they let their guard down; three times they were together as more than friends. 

Each time, one or both of them had been drunk. 

~*~

The first time was after the coming-of-age day party at a BBQ place that had, for some reason, a tiki theme. Hiruma had announced that the evening was ‘on him’, but considering he had invited every twenty-year-old from every football team he had ever faced despite having no legitimate source of income (such as a _job,_ for example), it seemed safe to assume he was extorting the owners. Mamori had, therefore, stopped at each table to welcome everyone and to collect donations to compensate the workers. 

“She's a good girl, hey Maria? That Anezaki,” Marco remarked with a cola in one hand and his other arm draped over his former manager’s shoulder. Both he and Maria had continued dating and continued football, but they had each gone to different universities. Marco watched as Mamori moved on to solicit the last of the tables, then shifted his eyes slightly. “Who’d’ve thought… but then it's not so surprising, I'd say...”

“Opposites attract, you mean? Maybe...” Maria followed his gaze. Though SaikyouDai's manager was as earnest as ever, on the other side of the restaurant the team's captain was cackling with some longtime rivals, acting as if he hadn't noticed. It was a rare thing to completely slip under his radar, of course. Just as Mamori was presenting a thick envelope to the waitress at the bar, Hiruma appeared, leaning on the rail of the counter beside her.

“Fuckin’ manager! What’re you doing?” he snarled, leaning down into her face with his mouth full of strangely sharp teeth. 

The waitress stood wide-eyed with her arms (and the night's wages) behind her back, but Mamori didn't flinch. If anything she looked more poised. 

"You know better than to call me that," she replied, picking up the menu from the counter as if she had just been rudely interrupted. “I'm ordering a drink.”

“Heh, ready to celebrate becoming an adult with your first booze?” Hiruma seemed more enthusiastic about the prospect of this than of many other things.

Mamori turned up her nose. “It's not my first!” 

Hiruma grinned with a hint of what might have been surprise— whatever it was, it only made him laugh more buoyantly. “Ooo busted!! Guzzling sake during those 'study sessions’ of yours, are ya?! Your secret's out now!!” 

“No! What is wrong with you?” Mamori exclaimed, turning her attention back to the menu. “We have a glass of wine with pasta at home sometimes, that's all. Like civilized people.” 

“Ah, I'm sorry, Miss, we don't have wine,” the waitress informed her, then indicated the next page. “But might I suggest our signature menu? They are all prepared with real fruit.” 

“They sound lovely,” Mamori sighed as she read the ingredients of the colourful drinks. In the photos they were depicted with toppings of tropical flowers and slices of fruit that gleamed like jewels. “How can I ever decide...?” 

Hiruma rolled his eyes. 

“We offer non-alcoholic versions as well,” the waitress noted. 

“Oh, I see. In that case…”

Hiruma slammed his hand down on the menu, pinning it to the counter. “You are not seriously going to order a non-alcoholic drink _today!_ What the hell is the point of a coming-of-age ceremony if you don’t—”

“—a ceremony which you didn’t even attend, Hiruma-kun,” Mamori reminded him, making no effort to hide her annoyance at his hypocritical preaching. 

“—or a coming-of-age day _party_ , at a joint with an all-you-can-drink special—"

“—that you didn’t even _pay for_ , Hiruma-kun!” The edge to her voice almost betrayed her financial contribution to the restaurant staff, but it made clear her displeasure. 

“Doesn’t matter. I invited you. I can un-invite you.” He leaned forward to stare back into her impatient glare. She turned away and pulled another menu from the box on the side of the counter, ignoring him. 

“Well, whatever," Hiruma suddenly changed his tune. He leaned back against the counter, surveying the party with a grin. "I don’t want you drinking anyway.”

Mamori nearly got whiplash from her double-take at his comment. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“It’d just be a disaster and somehow I’d end up getting blamed.” 

"I can drink without getting outrageously drunk."

"Keh!" Hiruma seemed to find that laughable. 

"What?" Mamori demanded, somewhat offended.

Hiruma just cackled and wandered off to harass the members of the Shuuei Medical College team who had apparently, unacceptably, not yet eaten their weight in sliced meat. 

Mamori watched him walk away with a deadpan expression. Then she turned to the waitress and ordered the most decadent of their tiki cocktails. 

Over the course of the evening everyone changed tables a half-dozen times to catch up with friends and rivals from other teams, and eventually the four long-time managers found themselves together. Although they discussed all manner of typical small talk, being slightly tipsy and for once free of their male teammates, eventually a stereotypical topic was raised. Despite her apparent lack of patience for any member of the opposite sex, Meg interrogated Maria and Wakana about their love lives at length. The demand was to describe the best date they had been on. After some irate prompting, both women had complied. 

“And Mamori, darling, what about you?”

Mamori had been listening quietly and sipping at the iced drink in front of her. It smelled of strawberries with a hint of lime, and the rim of the glass was crowned with sugar crystals. When all their eyes turned on her with interest, the candy-striped straw dropped from her lips, her eyes wide and blinking. “Me? Why me?” 

“It's your turn!” Meg insisted. The others nodded solemnly. 

“Well, I don't know…” Mamori began. She seemed to be searching her memory for something she had missed. “I've never… really been on a date, I guess.”

" _Euh…_?!" There was a collective sound of disbelief from her audience. Meg leaned forward to further question what seemed to be an unacceptable response, one hand on her hip and the other pressed against the table. "You sure? You haven't just suppressed the memory because it was so terrible?"

"I… I don't… how would I know that?" Mamori stammered.

Wakana blinked, trying to come to terms with what Mamori had said. “Are you saying you've never gone out somewhere with a guy alone?” 

“Oh, well,” Mamori seemed better prepared to answer with that definition. “In that case…”

“— _Not_ football related!” Wakana rushed to clarify. "And not Kobayakawa-kun, obviously. What about that guy from your tennis club? Haven’t you ever gone for coffee or something?"

“Doesn’t need to be a guy, either,” Meg noted as she pulled a thin slice of beef from the grill. “I was just asking about your best date, it doesn’t make a difference to me.” 

Again, Mamori scanned her memory, and after a few moments she finally she shook her head. 

Wakana glanced anxiously from Maria to Meg, almost jumping at the dark energy that seemed to be brewing. Maria was tapping a finger against her crossed arms, while Meg nibbled on the meat with a frown. But the tension in the air was broken when Mamori started to giggle. It started quietly as if she had remembered something funny, then gained momentum. Soon she was leaning over the table with her shoulders shaking. 

“Mamori?” Wakana asked. “Are you okay?”

“I'm sorry…” Mamori covered her mouth with her hand but the laughter didn't subside. Instead it spilled through her fingers, so she clasped the other hand to her face as well.

“I think she's drunk,” Maria murmured to the other two. 

“I'll get some water.” Wakana stood and hurried off. 

Mamori continued half giggling to herself, and half trying (and failing) to conceal it, but did her best to explain. “It's just… you’re managers of American football teams, too, right?” 

“What do you mean?” Meg demanded. “Being a manager means we don't have time for dating?”

“I mean... I don't know, when you’re around guys all the time… they stop being mysterious... or even interesting… don't you think?” Mamori gulped a breath and tried to deliver a full sentence without cracking up. 

“No mystery. Not interesting. My thoughts exactly,” Meg approved. 

“Maybe so, but maybe there is someone…" Maria asked carefully, trying not to look at the person she had in mind, "...who might possibly be an exception?”

But she couldn’t be sure if Mamori had heard her. The other woman was still struggling to get herself under control. The spaces between her fits of giggles were growing longer and seemed to only lightly shake her shoulders, but Maria could have sworn she caught a flash of surprise, suppressing a guilty expression behind the display of hysterics. After a moment Mamori shook her head as if to clear it and wiped a tear from her eye. 

“I'm sorry. You're right, Meg, I really feel too busy for romance. If that's what you call it. And besides,” —Mamori took the tongs to move a piece of meat on the grill in the centre of the table, but her coordination failed and the meat fell on the table top— “no one has ever asked me out.”

Mamori abandoned the fallen meat and instead took another piece from the plate— which she also promptly dropped— while Maria and Meg looked at each other with incredulous expressions. Moments later, a shadow fell over them. 

“What’s so funny, fuckin’ manager?” Hiruma said as he dropped into Wakana's vacant spot beside Mamori. He looked at the stack of uncooked meat in front of her and grabbed a pair of tongs to steal one of the pieces she dropped. “Kehkehkeh! Wasting meat, I see!” 

Mamori gestured to the plate with open hands. “Help yourself.”

One of Hiruma's eyebrows raised, but he focused on snatching up the raw chunks of meat and tossing them on the grill. “What's the matter with her?” he asked with a shrug in Mamori's direction. 

“Why isn't she arguing with you, you mean?” Maria suggested cooly. “Well, that's probably her sixth fruity, rum-based drink.”

“Sixth!” Hiruma glanced at Mamori's blissful, but somewhat drowsy smile and the strawberry daiquiri in her hands. “Still mostly upright, impressive! Kehkehkeh!” 

“Hiruma-kun!” Mamori turned to him suddenly with an urgent look. “You have to try this! It's strawberry! It is so so so delicious!”

“You've completely lost your shit, eh?” Hiruma didn't let the offer distract him from transferring meat from the grill to his mouth. “It's probably 95% pure sugar!”

“It’s real fruit juice!” 

“Fruit juice _is_ sugar, genius.”

Wakana returned with a glass of cold water in one hand and a pitcher in the other. With her own place occupied, she tucked herself in beside Meg just in time to witness the SaikyouDai team leads arguing. Hiruma was being his usual corrosive self, but rather than being annoyed, Mamori sounded like she was enjoying their spar. 

“Well, rum isn’t juice,” she continued with a matter-of-fact voice. 

“It’s made of bloody sugarcane!”

“But it isn’t sweet.”

“Not unless you drown it in sugary juices.” Hiruma laughed. “I bet you'd never be able to drink a glass of rum, on the rocks. Since you would have too many cavities!”

“Why would I drink something like that when there are so many beautiful drinks?” Mamori flushed as she remembered her previous orders. “There was a coconut one, oh, it was so good.” 

“She tried them all,” Wakana explained, and Hiruma cackled in delight.

"Not all of them!" Mamori corrected her. "I still haven't tried the Blue Sunset! But they have so many wonderful kinds. I tried the orange-mango… kiwi with blueberry... oh, yes, lemon meringue! And also lime and mint… You like mint, Hiruma, you can try that one! Oh what did they call it, it had some kind of exotic name…?”

The last piece of beef shredded between Hiruma’s teeth. He let the chopsticks fall with a clatter, then pushed himself up from the table, chuckling. “You’re drunk, fuckin’ manager.” 

Mamori didn't reply, except to stir the ice at the bottom of her daiquiri before taking a sip. 

The other three managers exchanged speechless glances as Hiruma wandered away. 

Maria excused herself, claiming to need to use the restroom. Instead she detoured down the hallway with quick paces until she overtook Hiruma. She stood to face him, blocking his way before he could join the Babels’ row of tables, which by that point had been populated by members of all sorts of different teams. 

“What is wrong with you?” Maria demanded. Hiruma moved to dodge her, but she raised an arm to bar his path. The hallway was narrow enough he couldn't dodge without physically knocking her out of the way. 

“She gets drunk and I get blamed,” Hiruma muttered. “What a surprise.”

“Not that. Mamori just told us she’s never been on a date!” Maria exclaimed.

“How is that my problem?”

“Don’t act like an idiot, it doesn’t suit you,” she replied. “A girl like her, smart and pretty and kind and good, and she hasn’t even been asked out? How do you explain that?”

“Guess no one has the balls to ask, kehkehkeh!” Hiruma laughed with a delighted shrug. Too delighted.

“Because you threaten anyone who gets too close?”

“Kehkehkehkeh! Not explicitly, if that's what you're getting at.”

Maria frowned. It was believable that Hiruma was able to stifle his manager’s dating prospects just by being such a central part of her life, even if he was denying a more active, malicious role. “Why haven’t you asked her, at least?” 

“Keh. Has she said anything about me?” Hiruma raised a curious eyebrow. Maria stared back but didn’t reply. All it took was a moment to convince him. “Once again, I wonder how this is my problem,” he said as he pushed her arm out of the way.

Maria let him pass but crossed her arms and glared after him. “You are such a coward." 

Hiruma glanced back with a flash of his fangs as he walked way. “That is my own business.” 

As the clock struck midnight, various guests were leaving and many had already left. Meg boarded her motorbike along with the rest of the ZokuDai gang, while Wakana escorted Yuki and Takami to the train. Marco had gone ahead to bring the car around when Maria confronted Hiruma again. He was engaged in a quickdraw battle with Kid over the remaining scraps of meat.

Maria cast her darkest glower on the bleach-blonde quarterback. "You will make sure she gets home safely."

On the other side of the room, Mamori was chatting happily with Kurita as a waitress delivered a fancy glass of liquid that variegated from crimson to electric blue. 

Hiruma clicked his tongue and skewered a piece of meat at the same moment as his opponent. A chopstick tug-of-war ensued. "You still haven't answered why it's my—"

"This is not up for debate," she said. Outside the horn of a vintage cruiser honked, and Maria turned to leave.

"There isn’t any proof," Hiruma reminded her. "You can call me a coward all you want, but the fact is I'm not an idiot. There's no reason I should get involved."

Maria looked back over her shoulder at him. Her eyes were sharp and for a moment it looked like she was about to argue. But in the last instant her expression softened. “As a friend, then. You invited her here, so make sure she gets home safe. That's all.”

With that she exited. Hiruma growled as he lost another piece of meat to the man with the cowboy hat. 

"You know, Maria isn't the only one who suspects there might be something more between you two," Kid noted. "Many people would agree."

"In case you weren't already aware, many people are morons," Hiruma replied. "If there _was_ something, I like to think I'd know about it." 

Kid shrugged. 

"I suppose so," he said and let Hiruma take the last piece of meat without contest. 

Sometime later Hiruma found himself leaving the restaurant in the company of the tipsiest American football manager he had ever seen. She could barely stand on her own, but she could stand, and she could even walk without falling on her face for the most part (although not well), so he counted himself lucky. He did have to put himself between her and the street to ensure she didn't walk into traffic, however, which was somewhat annoying.

"I warned you that this would happen," he scowled, more to himself than to her as he checked the train schedule on his phone. "You'd get drunk and I'd get blamed somehow."

"Hmm… I'm sorry?" Mamori smiled through her permanent blush, eyes half-closed. 

"Keh. You're drunk," he replied, half annoyed, but grudgingly amused. 

The last train to Deimon district left in seven minutes. Under ordinary conditions that would be enough time to walk to the station, but these were not ordinary conditions, not with that drunk fool dragging her feet. Hiruma stepped up the pace. Mamori followed his lead, but it was only a few paces before she swayed dangerously and stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk. She managed to right herself but to Hiruma it was clear they could never make it in time. Not unless he carried her. And that was definitely not going to happen. He pulled out his phone again. 

_— Hiruma…?_ _Wha—? it's the middle of the night!_

"Fuckin’ shrimp, call the fuckin’ manager’s old woman and tell her she’s staying at a friend’s place or something." 

_— Call... Mamori-nee-san's… mother?_

"Are you actually going to make me waste more breath on this?"

_—Okay okay but why can't she call on her own?_

Hiruma hung up without replying. When he turned back to Mamori, she was balancing on top of a low cement block, some kind of decorative curb meant to protect the tiny municipal flower bed. It would have no chance of doing that if she fell. 

Mamori was contemplating him thoughtfully. “Hiruma-kun, you're too tall.”

“As you are fully aware, I’m exactly average fucking height,” he said with a scowl. “You're gonna fall and it's gonna be my fault.”

She was wobbling a little, but that extra foot of height meant they were suddenly eye to eye. It made him realize how much he liked looking down at her. Looming over her. Trying his hardest to intimidate her, even though she just launched back at him with no shortage of righteous attitude. Not looking down at her, after all: he liked how she looked at him as if he could never win. He took a step toward her, mockingly confident, and then another, but it wasn’t quite the same. She didn’t look annoyed in the slightest. 

"Hiruma," Mamori said. He knew she must have still been drunk, but she was only a foot in front of him and she seemed almost perfectly composed— all except for that dropped honorific. “Close your eyes.”

One of Hiruma's eyebrows raised, but otherwise he did not move. He seemed almost frozen. At his failure to comply, Mamori reached out and placed her hands over his eyes. Then she leaned toward him. Her kiss missed his mouth and landed just below his nose, with only her bottom lip brushing the edge of his top lip giving away her intent. 

Hiruma put his hands on either side of her face and pulled her back— then aligned her properly so their mouths locked. 

Their first kiss was longer than most of their conversations. It began cautiously, as if being stolen from under the laser security system by some cat-burglar. But each moment that it continued without alarms being triggered or police bursting on the scene added a layer of confidence, boldness of kissing that was only broken when Mamori's foot rolled off the edge of her tiny pedestal and she fell back abruptly. Hiruma did have his arm around her by then, but wasn't fully prepared to support her full weight until a half-second into the descent. 

"You're drunk," he reminded her. If he let go she would land in the flowerbed. She would probably survive the fall. He held her tighter. 

"It's true," she whispered in reply, holding onto him as she looked up into his eyes. 

~*~

Hiruma was intoxicated, but not the way Mamori was.

He was sitting on the other side of the room— heels on the hotel desk, chair leaning back, laptop out but invisible to his eyes that still couldn’t focus— when Mamori woke. In his bed. 

She sat bolt upright, clutching the blankets as if to keep from falling, then pulling the sheet up to cover her chest even though her hair was long enough to cover anything that might have been censored from programming for general consumption. From her stunned expression it was clear that her mind was slowly piecing together where she was and what she could remember of what had happened the night before. And probably imagining things in the gaps of what she couldn't remember.

"Before you get any crazy ideas: you initiated everything. None of this was my idea." 

That wasn't strictly true— he had ideas, and had eventually suggested them— but the statement conveyed the enthusiastic consent that made him unable to refuse her. It was her mouth that had started it. Her hands had pulled him in. Almost as if she were interested in something more between them. It was only going to cause trouble, but he was intoxicated by the way her body responded, just to his mouth and his hands on her skin. He was an intelligent person, he knew better than to get involved with his own bloody teammate, for fuckssake— but that responsiveness kept him in her arms long past the moment she had fallen asleep. Despite all his self-possessed pride, it turned out he was just a stupid helpless fool after all. Laying there anyway. Like a dream. Hope against hope. 

She had been truly drunk, however, and eventually morning had come. 

An eternity had passed since she woke, but Mamori had not moved, except the nervous scan of her eyes, stunned and wide. Hiruma didn't move either. Each muscle was taut and tense, his hands were clammy but even wiping them on his pants seemed like too much of a risk. He wondered how much she remembered. How much would she regret? Would she be too ashamed to face him? Would it be the end of everything? The future threatened to crumble into some unknowable void. 

Her face blushed pink then flushed a deep red before it blanched to the same chalky off-white as the business hotel walls. 

"Did we…?"

She didn't finish. She didn't look at him. It was hilarious really, that she couldn’t even bring herself to say what she meant, not even some obscure, tasteful euphemism. Ordinarily he would have tormented her with that half-finished question, twisted it and willfully misinterpreted it. But instead he replied with one quiet word: 

"No." 

She still didn't move, except to blink. But slowly her colour came back. Gradually her terrorized stare shifted to the room around her. She located her clothes and then slipped into each piece as if she were trying to become invisible. To Hiruma she was more than visible, more three dimensional than she had ever been, with that new dimension of the taste of her— different tastes mapped onto each part of her that he could almost see. He was still so drunk from it he could barely think. 

When she was dressed, Mamori stood in the middle of the room, closed her eyes and slowly inhaled. In that one breath she composed herself, outwardly at least, from her expression to the way she held her head and pushed her shoulders back. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Just for a moment, steady, but slightly distant. After all that time, after the half a million times she had looked at him, he should have been able to read it. But he couldn’t. It was broken by the flicker of her eyelashes as she blinked. Then she turned away. 

She walked out the door.

And neither of them ever spoke of it again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some mature content which is somewhat more explicit and a little darker than I usually write. Suffice to say, if you feel uncomfortable, at any point feel free to skip to the last few paragraphs of the chapter.

The second time was at the end of their last year of college. 

It was inappropriately late when Musashi called. Mamori had just finished the last episode of the American drama that she watched entirely to keep her English sharp, not for the tragic characters or the romantic subplots at all. She was bundled with her legs under the blanket of the kotatsu, still unable to convince herself to change into her pajamas and finally head to bed. When she saw the name on the call display, her brows knit together. He hated phone calls.

“Gen, what’s wrong?” 

The man on the other end of the line let out a sigh before he finally spoke. “Anezaki… I hate to drag you into this, but…”

A short time later, Mamori was marching up to the address that Musashi had given her, upstairs from a small shop on a neglected commercial strip only a short distance from SaikyouDai. Yukimitsu arrived at nearly the same moment, and together they climbed the exterior staircase. There they found a dark room with a square table with four chairs, and seated on them, four men. Yuki froze in the doorway, too intimidated to step forward. The unrivalled rival quarterbacks of the college league stared one another down across their neat walls of tiles: Kid of the Babels; Takami for Shuuei; Enma’s Kongo Unsui. And Hiruma, of course, leaning back in his rickety folding chair, laughing. 

The room stank of alcohol. Beside each player was their collection of point counters, indicating their score, and a shot glass. Hiruma’s pile was by far the largest.

“A mahjong… drinking game?” Yukimitsu said, taking in the scene wide-eyed. 

Musashi appeared beside them out of the gloom of the room. “They do shots depending on how many points they score. It’s supposed to be like a handicap.”

“I can’t imagine whose idea this was.” Mamori eyed SaikyouDai’s quarterback warily. Although she knew he preferred cards, he sometimes dabbled in other games of probability and deduction to keep things interesting. With his last Rice Bowl behind him and college all but finished, there was nothing to stop him from inventing audacious stunts for entertainment... or other purposes. 

“Seems like it’s not their first round either,” Yuki noted. More than a half-dozen empty whiskey bottles lined the wall, with little remaining in the one sitting on the dusty filing cabinet that they seemed to be using as a bar. 

Mamori crossed her arms and glared at Musashi. “And you? Are you the ref?”

Musashi shook his head, although for once he looked annoyed. It wasn’t often that Mamori turned her displeasure in his direction. As understandable as it might be, he didn’t appreciate the accusation. “Just got a bunch of gloating messages. Someone is winning. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

Hiruma’s grin gleamed. 

“They’re playing for money.” It wasn’t a question. 

Musashi shrugged. “Well, I doubt they were blackmailed into this. And they were probably sober enough to make the decision, at the start anyway.”

Kid was slumped back in his seat, his hat angled forward in a way that made it look like he was sleeping, but the slits of his eyes reflected the lamplight, sharp and alert. Unsui leaned forward with a determined frown, elbows against his knees to prop his upper body nearly at the same level as his tiles as he compared them with the discards of his opponents. As always, Takami’s posture was perfectly straight. He pushed his glasses up, then let his fingers fall lightly to his chin as his eyes moved between his opponents and the tiles. None of them showed evidence of being inebriated; not even Hiruma’s hysterical laughter could be considered out of character. 

“They must've drank almost two bottles each!” Yukimitsu had done the math. “Except, considering Hiruma’s winning, he's probably had twice that, reducing the overall average of the others to—”

“You here to join the game or what, fuckin’ calculator?” Hiruma interrupted with a wicked grin. “You can take over for any of these idiots. Maybe Baldy here can give me a bit of a challenge! KehkehkehkehkyaaAAAHHhh—!!”

Hiruma's laughter was interrupted as he lost his precarious balance on the folding chair and fell crashing to the ground. He clumsily untangled himself and struggled to set up the chair in a position stable enough to sit on, then assumed his usual confident demeanor as if nothing had happened. 

Mamori sighed. “Gen, I apologise.”

This time Musashi cracked a smug half-smile as he shook his head again. “So, are we going to break this up? Kurita’s supposed to be here for Unsui any minute now.”

~*~

“I was winning.”

Mamori held a handful of Hiruma’s jacket just above his elbow as part of her effort to redirect him whenever he lurched off course. When they tried to tear him from the game before the final round had been completed, he had howled and hissed like a feral cat, but after his opponents had been escorted away, there had been nothing left to defend. 

“Honestly, what were you thinking?” Mamori sighed.

She steered him down the mostly empty sidewalk as he alternated between grumbling and laughing hysterically. Sometimes he took more steps backward than forward.

“I was winning, fuckin’ manager!”

“Don't call me that,” she said for the millionth time. It was automatic, a reflex. A habit. But this time it was slightly different. “I'm not your manager anymore, remember?”

“Fuckin’ details,” Hiruma scoffed. “Fuckin’ manager.”

“Hiruma-kun.” 

“Fuckin’ man…ta ray…?” he grinned wide. “Fuckin’ mana… tee?”

“Hi _ru_ ma _-kun!_ ” Mamori fumed. Though the pudgy aquatic mammals were oddly adorable, it was the principle of it all. “I forbid you to call me that!” 

“Fuckin’ manatee! Kehkehkehekhkehekhekhkehekhe!” 

His laughter spilled from his mouth in a thick, glittering cloud under the streetlight. Mamori pulled the zipper of her coat up as high as it would go and buried her face behind the collar. In her rush to leave she had forgotten her scarf and she was regretting it, but at least her hair provided a little insulation against the chill. Hiruma didn’t seem to notice the cold, however, despite only wearing his thin leather jacket with a hooded sweatshirt underneath for warmth.

“Those guys aren’t made of money, Hiruma-kun,” Mamori returned to her original argument in an attempt to divert attention from her new nickname. “Why would you force them to gamble like that?”

“Eh, well…” His reply was slow, almost thoughtful. It must have been the alcohol that made his smirk look a little nostalgic. “I didn’t force them…” 

Mamori glanced at him, surprised not to hear one of his usual rapid fire responses. Hiruma was looking in the general area in front of him without really seeing, lost in his own world. Whether that was memories or wild plans for the future, she couldn’t tell. He stumbled slightly and fell behind her by a few steps. Mamori paused to let him catch up. Only then did he notice her look of concern and laughed again. “It was just a game. One last game. It was fun. Okay, fuckin’ manatee? Kekkehkehkeh!!”

“Do _not_ call me that!” she warned. “Playing for money isn’t just a game, Hiruma-kun. Even with their scholarships, you know perfectly well they still have loans to pay. And just before graduation! You aren’t football rivals anymore, you know. You could have just—”

“Tch…” he scoffed, but his response was so slow and relaxed it was almost eerie. “Even after all this time... you still don’t understand a thing about men. Or about me... Fuckin’ ma-na-tee.”

The accusation hurt. But before she could reply, her arm was yanked down as he stumbled again, this time falling down to a knee. Mamori frowned. His ability to walk actually seemed to be getting worse, as if the alcohol was still accumulating in his bloodstream rather than being worked out of his system. If so, he might not begin to sober up for a few hours. She had seen him drink before, but never to the point that it impacted his behaviour or control of his body. But now the invincible Hiruma Youichi was doing things like falling down and speaking with a far-off and wistful voice. And needing help to stand. 

Hiruma tried to straighten but suddenly lost his balance again. Mamori caught his other arm just quickly enough to keep him from hitting the ground, barely preventing the fall from making impact. It took a good deal more strength to pull him back up, wedging a foot against his for added stability and leverage. If she was being honest with herself, she would have to admit she was a little worried about him. She wasn’t his manager anymore, but she was glad that Musashi had called her. Even if it meant freezing outside in the middle of the night. The season was over, graduation was coming up, and soon they wouldn’t be able to count on clubs or courses or tournaments to bring them all together, day after day. 

That was why it hurt so much, when he said she didn’t understand. 

“You were trying to bind them to you, with that debt,” Mamori said, still holding to both his sleeves tightly until he fully stabilized. “No matter what path your futures take you. If they owe you something, then they will still be tied to you. That’s the reason, isn’t it?” 

Hiruma peered down at her, a flash of what might have been surprise followed by a long piercing look. But after a puff of breath he grinned. “We were just having fun. Until someone came along and ruined it.”

There was a glint in his eye, playful and cruel, but Mamori looked back at him and didn’t say anything in response. Hiruma was about to break her odd silence with a cackle when she turned and pulled his arm over her shoulder. Hiruma’s mouth snapped shut but his eyes were wide.

“It isn’t much further,” Mamori said simply. “If you get dizzy again, just hold onto me, okay? But if you lean away, there’s nothing I can do and we’ll both fall.”

She secured his arm in place over her shoulder with one hand, then put her own arm around his waist to keep his centre of gravity close. It meant she had to bear his weight for a few blocks while watching his feet to try to keep their steps in pace together, but she hoped it would prevent the need to bandage him from any serious falls. Hiruma, who never failed to crack a remark at every opportunity, accepted the arrangement without comment. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence. It was less cold with him leaning against her, although it was a struggle to keep him from losing his balance, but they reached the warmth of the business hotel and made it through the lobby, up the elevators, and down the hall without incident. In front of his door— she prayed he had stopped in front of the right door— Hiruma searched his pockets for his key card, muttering a series of swears more or less under his breath, except that his breath was almost directly in her ear so she was treated to the range of his vocabulary at what felt like full volume. Finally he produced the card but it wasn’t until she reached out to align it properly that it slipped into the slot on the handle and the door opened. 

It might have been the same room Mamori had woken up in more than two years earlier, but being so generic and sparse it was difficult to tell. Regardless, the tiny room made the memories of that long-past night suddenly vivid. It made the years of silence afterward, when she was too ashamed to speak of what had happened and then too afraid to bring it up again, seem freshly painful. It took a little more strength than she expected to act like nothing had happened.

It was only a few paces from the door to the bed. Hiruma’s weight shifted off her shoulders as he sat heavily, his legs hanging off the edge with his shoes still on. Mamori remembered letting her feet down just there, finding her sweater nearby, wondering if her life had irreparably changed and whether she could bear to face it. She hadn't known then that very little would change, little except knowing and wondering and yearning— a ridiculous word that she wished did not apply to her, but it did and she would prefer to die than to let it show. What she was sure of was that it had been a mistake, an accidental misstep. It wouldn't do to make things awkward between them, with the team and everything. And in the end, being in love with a man who had mastered his face as a collection of masks was not so different than being his teammate, reluctant friend, and alternate caregiver, as she had always been. 

Mamori disappeared into the bathroom where she drew a deep breath and once again tried to convince herself, despite knowing better, that it had simply been a dream. Then she returned to the bedside with a glass filled to the point of overflowing. 

“Drink,” she said. 

“Tch. I’m already drunk...” Hiruma’s eyes couldn’t seem to focus on the glass in front of him. “Fuckin’ manager...” 

“It’s water, dummy.” She took his hand and placed it on the side to prompt him to take it. “And I’m n—”

“—not my manager anymore, yeah yeah….”

“Drink it. You’ll thank me later.”

“Keh!” That scoff of a laugh was at that unspoken fact they both understood: _when was the last time he had thanked anyone?_ But he took the glass and drank. When it was empty he let it fall to the ground. 

Mamori did not approve, but she picked up the glass and refilled it again without comment. When she returned Hiruma hadn’t moved from the position she had left him in, sitting on the edge of the bed gazing vaguely somewhere ahead of himself but with no obvious object of fixation. Without his piercing, calculating stare he did not seem like himself. 

Mamori set the glass aside and touched his forehead. Hot, which was normal for him. She was worried he might have caught a chill from walking home dressed so improperly. One benefit to living in a hotel was that the heating was on before they arrived and it was warm enough that she had already opened her jacket, but his ears were still red from being outside. His cheeks were flushed, too. That might be due to the alcohol. It was hard to know. 

“You should sleep,” she told him softly, as if that might help him recover faster.

Hiruma made no effort to move. His stare was directed at her now, but the way his head bobbed slightly suggested he was dizzy. Mamori frowned and put the back of her hand against his face again, but she couldn’t decide if he had a fever or if it was just his body processing the alcohol. She let her hand fall to the collar of his jacket. 

“You can’t sleep in this, Hiruma-kun,” Mamori said. There were just enough metal buckles and studs that it would be dangerous to wear to bed. She pushed the collar back until it was over his shoulder, but Hiruma made no effort to help her, not even to shift his weight to let his arm pull through. Mamori tugged at the opposite side so that the jacket was evenly off his shoulders, until it bunched around his elbows. 

"Hiruma…" she sighed at his failure to move or respond at all. She had to physically push his arms to allow the jacket to finally fall into a pile behind him on the bed. 

Before she could move to put it somewhere, however, Hiruma's head fell heavily on her shoulder, and she had to lean forward to counterbalance his weight and keep from falling back. His forehead pressed against her neck with an eyebrow weighing on her collarbone, so that he was still propped upright by leaning on her at that shallow angle. 

Mamori’s heart skipped. She tried to calm her pulse by reminding herself of the reality of his inebriated condition. Hiruma had never so much as joked about leaning on someone else’s shoulder. He was completely capable of sleeping while sitting up, but in the hundreds of times they had taken the train together, only once had he accidentally leaned against her in his sleep. Her insides were fluttering much the same as they had been then, but she felt the light tickle of his eyelashes on her neck as he blinked, and she realized his eyes were still open. 

Mamori was about to mask her feelings with a practical question about whether he was feeling sick, but he spoke first. 

“Are you cold, fuckin’ manager?” 

What partial vision he retained was cast straight ahead at the open collar of her winter coat with her hair tangled across it. Before she could reply, his hand drifted up and pushed her hair back from her neck in one long, slow motion. 

“...ah...not my manager anymore...” Hiruma breathed into her neck, inhaling as if her skin was a resource; a source of power. 

Mamori’s breathing, soft but so close to his ear, simply stopped. 

Perhaps he took it as a signal. 

She felt his other arm slip under her coat and wrap around the back of her thighs. The height difference of him sitting and her standing meant he could hold her hips firmly against his torso even as she instinctively tried to pull back. 

"What are you doing?" Mamori tried to slow her pulse. She was having difficulty coming up with an alternate explanation to the idea that perhaps he was thinking of her the way she had been thinking of him, but she didn't want to jump to conclusions. He was holding her so close she could barely think straight. 

Hiruma didn't reply. His hand moved with all the coordination of a marionette, but he clumsily managed to push her coat off her shoulder. Underneath was her hooded sweatshirt, the zipper giving way under the force as his hand seized the collar and pulled it open, exposing her thermal shirt below. 

“Hiruma-kun...!” Mamori forced herself to protest in an angry whisper. Once again she tried to step back and put some distance between them, but that arm around her held her firmly, his hand grasping a handful of flesh at the back of her thigh. He was presuming too much. He had no right. He should know better. He shouldn’t… but then he was scraping his fingertips along the small exposed patch of skin at her neckline until they caught the edge of the collar of her shirt, pulling it back as far it would stretch, and then his tongue was tracing along the full curve of her breast, and an irresistible shiver rushed through her. But she was still acutely aware that he had not _asked,_ and even if— even _if_ she had been the one to initiate things last time, even _if_ she had not been able to stop replaying her memories of that night for months afterward, even _if_ she had kept imagining what else they might do, what they might have done, what they could do if they were to spend time together as more than colleagues or teammates, that didn’t mean… But a gasp of pleasure escaped her anyway. His mouth had found her nipple, and almost instantly heat bloomed inside her, pulsing through her body and weakening her knees. She might have collapsed, but there was no longer need to support either his weight or her own: he had thrown her down onto the bed at the first sound of her sigh. 

One hand clawed at her layers of clothes, searching blindly for an opening, but his body pressed against her, already grinding his pelvis against hers with an urgency that apparently could not be postponed for the removal of clothes. It was not romantic, and she had not been expecting romance, but she had savoured some small hope of something else. For him to look into her eyes, rather than staring at her like prey, for example. Despite this, despite all the layers, despite his inelegant panting in her ear, he had connected with some physical trigger that she knew the biological name for but did not realize could have so much power. She felt desperate for him to keep crushing his body against her, some involuntary force making her gasp in rhythmic breaths as that force radiated its warm tingling grasp from deep between her legs into her blood and her bones. 

Hiruma’s hands ran over every inch of her as if consuming her through touch alone, searching and failing to find point of access to her skin. His urgency was almost terrifying— the man who she had watched hatch intricate plans and deploy them with calculated patience was presently unable to control his impulses long enough to figure out how to undress her. Her own arms were trapped under the coat that he had half pushed down her shoulders, which was in turn pinned down under his weight as he leaned over her on the bed. 

"Hiruma… don’t," she breathed between sighs as she tried to work her arm free of her coat sleeve. She didn't know what he might do. "Hiruma, stop..." even as her body was arguing _don't stop._ “...not... like this…”

He must not have heard her, or if he did, the words must not have registered. He had returned to the opening at her shirt collar again, seizing her breast and putting his mouth to her nipple. A new pulse of pleasure spread from it, accumulating sensitivity. He turned the slick nipple between his knuckles and drew it up into a pinch with his fingertips, and she could not hold back the moan as her back arched. As her hips lifted, his crotch pressed her clit through the layers of fabric at a new, more compelling angle. Her gasp was immediate, an urgent cry for more that drowned out her words to the contrary. His body responded instantly, feverishly thrusting against her with all his weight. She was aware that her own hips were rocking faster and faster, against her better judgement and efforts to stop it, chasing some rhythm that was just out of reach but promised to turn this spark inside her into a full blazing flame, and he was never slow to match her. Even their moans were of a pace. Perfectly synchronized, but for the breathless gasps of _no no no..._

Mamori freed her arm from the sleeve of her jacket just as the pressure of Hiruma’s body between her legs triggered an implosion of pleasure within her that sent a paralyzing shockwave all the way into her fingertips. Hiruma had collapsed over her, panting into her neck to catch his breath as something within her throbbed, perfectly in time. 

Her mind was glowing. Before she could regain her senses, she had wrapped her arm over his shoulder to keep him close against her forever. Everything else was momentarily forgotten. Years of dreams of holding him were finally as real as his weight. 

But a bitter, aching memory ate through the glow, poisoning the moment. Mamori searched with her fingers until felt his jaw under them and guided his face up so that he was looking at her face. He seemed to see her for the first time since she had helped him through the door. A smile curled onto his lips and his hand slipped across her hip, which might have been what she wanted if she had wanted any of it. 

“I said stop, Hiruma.” 

She couldn’t manage more than a whisper, but this time his eyes grew wide. He rolled off her immediately. “Shit…” 

He wasn’t touching her at all anymore, not even through those layers of clothes, but for some reason that was the moment she started to crumble. Her eyes scrunched up to keep back the tears. 

“Ah shit… no…” Hiruma was watching her as intently as he could through his intoxicated haze. His eyebrow twitched as her expression transformed. "Fuck…"

"...how could you…?" The pain was fresh in her voice. She refused to cry in front of him, but soon she felt a wet drop splash in her ear.

“Hey, come on,” Hiruma reached out a hand to frame her face, perhaps in an effort to bring her back to her senses. “C'mon, yell at me. Get angry! Kick my ass. But don’t… you know I’m not worth...” 

But he didn’t tell her not to cry. 

“Fuck,” he said again, bringing his fists up to his forehead then pulling his fingers through his hair as if searching the limits of his vocabulary and returning empty handed. “I’m sorry.”

She lost all strength to hold back the sobs. It wasn’t fair. For so long she had wondered what it would take for him to say something like that. She had thought she would give anything to hear him apologize, just once. She didn't even bother to wipe her eyes as the tears flooded down the side of her face. Hiruma rubbed his thumb across her cheek as if to calm her or wipe the tears, in the most uncharacteristic of gestures that might have been endearing in any other situation, but Mamori pulled his hand away. For a moment her fingers were entangled in his, but this only managed to fuel her tears. It wasn’t fair. 

"How could you…?" she whispered again between shuddering breaths. 

Hiruma watched her with wide eyes for a time, but gradually his alcohol-heavy lids fell down over them. He blinked hard to stay conscious, trying to focus on the sobbing woman in front of him. "I didn't… I thought... fuck, I'm sorry."

When Mamori finally ran out of tears, Hiruma was passed out beside her, laying on half of his leather jacket and all its metal accents. Part of her longed to tuck him in properly— but there was that distinct possibility that he might wake up, and that she might have to be reasonable in front of him… face his apology, potentially accept it… which was not something she had the emotional strength to risk. 

Instead she did up her coat, slipped on her shoes, and closed the door carefully behind her. 

Over the next few weeks Mamori made herself busy with exams and managed to only see Hiruma at social events, where they were never alone and it was scarcely appropriate to discuss what had happened. 

Mamori would engage in polite conversation and pretend nothing was wrong. 

Hiruma would stare and say nothing to the point that even the more oblivious of his crew commented on his silence. 

After graduation had come and gone, little changed between them except the content of their daily routines that drew them further and further out of a shared orbit. Mamori started teaching in a neighboring district and Hiruma was drafted, half a world away.

And so, neither of them spoke of it again for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah so... that tag "it gets worse before it gets better" is not just for decoration.
> 
> I was really not sure how to put appropriate warnings on this. This scene is obviously about sexual assault as consent was never given/was clearly withdrawn... But things are complicated to say the least, and so I hope the "mature" rating at least mostly covers these bases!!! I hate stories that use rape as a character development device and so I don't love the idea of using sexual assault to further a plot, but the crux of this story is how 'unspoken love' can deteriorate, and this is where we ended up.
> 
> Anyway, they will have to work this shit out eventually-- believe me, we are going there soon!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might anticipate, in this chapter again there is some descriptive sexual activity. Feel free to skip to the end of the section if it is not to your taste :P

The third time was after Hiruma had left for America. 

Amid the mix of shouts and cheers that washed over him as the San Antonio Armadillos marched up to their home stadium for a late season game, Hiruma detected a familiar voice that nearly froze him midstep. 

"Hiruma Youichi!! Buttsubuuuusu!!"

He dared not turn his head to look, to betray interest or be caught searching the crowd, but with a quick glance out of the corner of his eye toward the mess of bodies he caught a flash of auburn. Confirmed.

Until that moment he had been able to master his body to conceal all the anxiety and adrenaline that kept threatening to make him look like a half-baked amateur before his NFL debut, but with this unexpected development Hiruma suddenly sensed the muscles in his fingers twitch. Not shake, it was only a twitch, that’s all. He clenched his fingers into a fist and forced himself to stare straight ahead instead of stealing another glance to try to decode her expression or who she might be with. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it distract him. It was his first time on the field in an official game since he had been drafted into the bloody national American football league. The pinnacle. _That_ was the only thing that mattered. 

Hiruma passed through the stadium doors and the sound of the fans faded. His lungs ached from holding his breath. 

~*~

Mamori stepped out of the taxi at the intersection and double checked the address. Hiruma had shared the details of the game’s afterparty to the entire group chat, despite the fact that the vast majority of the chat members were on the opposite side of the ocean. Though it might be interpreted as blatant gloating (and it certainly was that, too) she knew it was also secretly an earnest invitation. He wouldn’t have made it up.

The address of the Texan barbecue place in the chat history was exactly the same as the one she had given the taxi driver but had forced him to drive past. It couldn't possibly be the glitzy restaurant with the valet parking service and crowd of photographers flashing madly at the people exiting the expensive cars in front of the entrance. But she had forgotten. This was an event for professional athletes of one of America’s most revered sports, after all. Fame and red carpets and multi-figure salaries, this party would involve brushing shoulders with the rich and powerful. Mamori was momentarily paralyzed by the sensation of being both too plain and too insignificant. 

She hadn’t replied to say she was coming. She could still turn back. But she forced herself to shake it off. Hiruma had come all that way, all alone, and after so long he finally had his moment to shine. The least she could do was brave that glamorous party and congratulate him.

Mamori steeled her nerves and took a determined step forward. An instant later she felt a hand clamp down over her mouth and pull her back around the corner. A pulse of panic coursed through her veins, but almost as suddenly her blood went cold. She recognised that particular scent of gunpowder with spearmint so well she might have been able to identify the make and model of his gun. 

Mamori twisted out of Hiruma’s grasp and gave him a thwack of anger with her bag. After not seeing one another for over half a year, it was anything but a nostalgic reunion. 

“For goodness sake, Hiruma! Has it ever occurred to you that this kind of behavior might end badly some day?” 

“Whatever, let’s get out of here.” Hiruma was already striding away, hands shoved in the pockets of his cotton blazer. Heading in the opposite direction of the party.

“What?" Mamori watched him walk away in disbelief. "Where are you going?!” 

“Anywhere but here!” he replied. 

It was true that Hiruma wasn’t sporting any gaudy, bedazzled costume, as he certainly would have if he were intending to make an impressive entrance. Instead he wore ordinary street clothes, dark and simply cut, that certainly did not betray any hint that he was a professional athlete.

“But— Hiruma!?” 

He had gotten far enough away that she felt compelled to follow with small, quick strides. 

“Some place where I can get a drink. In peace.” Hiruma let up his pace and turned back to her, hand outstretched. “Gimme your phone.” 

Without waiting for her response he snatched it from her hands and tapped in her passcode. 

"Hiruma… it was only your first game..." Mamori wanted to reason with him at greater length, but she couldn't. She didn't know his new team well enough to really be able to argue that they wouldn't hold his failed pass against him. It had cost them, and the win that took them to the playoffs had only been narrowly made in overtime with a kick. It had been heartbreaking to watch. She could only imagine how it felt to be in his place.

“By the airport, keh, that’s perfect. You are so fucking practical.” Hiruma tossed the phone back at her and hailed a taxi. 

Before she knew what was happening, Mamori was sitting with him in the lounge of her hotel. The bartender placed a glass of whiskey on the counter in front of Hiruma and poured half a can of cola into another for Mamori, garnished with a slice of lime. 

Hiruma downed a substantial gulp, then set the nearly empty glass down and stared across the corner of the bar at her. Mamori considered a variety of things she might say to break the silence, but she knew those eyes. The shadow cast by the bevel of his eyelids and their short, thick lashes almost swallowed his murky green irises, tracing the narrow outline of his eyes like a coat of black liner. Any words would be swatted down or ignored. So instead she focused on staying poised under his glare, carefully managing the ache in her chest as she sipped her own drink daintily. 

Waiting. 

"You came," he said after a long moment. 

"Well, I was in the neighborhood..." Mamori allowed herself to crack a smile at the exaggeration. She had been in California, which was not even the next state over, but compared to the distance from Japan it felt like it was right next door. "The same continent, anyway."

He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her. "You came."

Something in his seriousness made her soften. “You know the others would be here if they could. It's a long trip, and it’s hard to make time on such short notice.” 

Hiruma didn't reply. He turned the glass five degrees counterclockwise without breaking his stare.

“Sena said he was able to watch from the airport," Mamori added gently. "He's sorry he couldn't be here. If it weren’t for the storm...”

“Why did you come?” he said, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“Why…?” she repeated, astounded at the question. “It was your first pro game! And I was in America anyway, so I th—” 

“Why were you in America?” 

“It was my cousin’s wedding. I was a bridesmaid, I had—”

“The wedding was two weeks ago.”

She refused to bat an eyelash at the things he knew, but it was unnerving. As if he suspected that she had waited as long as she could to see if they would finally let him play before she absolutely had to go back. “Normal people don’t make a twelve hour flight just to spend the weekend, Hiruma.” 

“That worked out well, didn’t it…?” Hiruma mused aloud, sitting back in the bar stool as if the conversation had reached its conclusion. 

Mamori nearly gaped at his resigned reaction but managed to stay outwardly composed. “You don’t believe me!” 

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t have to come.” He raised his glass to his mouth as if to take a sip, but his eyes never left her. “You know that, right?” 

She bit back her impulse to argue. He wasn't being so unreasonable. She hadn't told him she was coming, after all. 

“I know.” 

She hadn't wanted to distract him when she knew he would want to focus on preparing for the game. But in truth, even the day before she still hadn’t decided if she should go. Facing him again seemed too hard. But not being there for him turned out to be harder, so she had bought her ticket just before midnight for a flight the next morning that arrived barely an hour before the game. 

"Well, lucky you, getting to witness that with your own eyes," Hiruma muttered. He flagged the bartender to bring another drink. “Worth the trip, I’m sure.”

The new drink arrived and Hiruma wasted no time. The empty glass met the counter top with a dull but audible smack. After a moment he struck the counter with both fists. 

"Tch! It was my chance!” He bared his teeth, practically growling in frustration. “Finally my chance to show those motherfuckers who they're dealing with! Finally. Dammit!" 

This wasn’t his brooding silent anger. Mamori watched, wide-eyed and wary. He had only been in American for six months. How could his steel trap of self composure already be so frayed?

“Well?” he snapped at her. “Aren’t you going to tell me I did my best or some shit like that?”

Mamori took a sip of the cola and the bubbles burned at the inside of her nose, almost like tears pricking at her eyes. She felt as if she had been robbed of all her weapons. Bring the support of everyone who wished they could be there, be pleasant and polite— she had convinced herself to come knowing she could do those things and thinking that it would mean something. It couldn’t be the same as being there, as watching day after day and making tiny unspoken gestures to keep him from wearing down. It could never be enough, but it was all she could do. 

“Hiruma… it’s not over. You know that.” 

“Not over. Tch!” Hiruma gestured to the bartender. "Another."

“You have a contract,” she reminded him gently. “They can’t just throw you away.”

“They can bench me for the rest of the season, exactly the same as the last goddamn half a year!” he replied. “It’s not like I was outsmarted or outmaneuvered or overpowered or anything. There’s no excuse. I fucked up. It’s on me.” 

The bartender placed a new glass in front of Hiruma, but Mamori stretched out her hand and intercepted it, pulling it away before Hiruma could react. She gave him a stern look. 

“Whatever happened today, whatever the reason, I refuse to believe you will just give up.”

“Tch,” Hiruma scowled. “Those bastards would ice me in a fucking heartbeat and I just handed them the keys to my prison.” 

“Those…” Mamori couldn’t repeat his choice of words. “You mean, your team?” 

“Who else? It's a fucking internal war, and I'm an army of one. This was my chance. Tch!” 

“Then you will win them over,” she told him, still holding his glass hostage.

“With my limitless charm?” he scoffed. 

“Yes,” she replied simply. If he had forgotten, the least she could do was remind him. “If it’s you, one way or another, you will make something from nothing. Just like you always have.” 

Hiruma stared at her with dagger sharp eyes. Studying her, decoding her and searching for cracks in that calm confidence. But one advantage of refusing to lie was that Mamori could almost always win a staring contest— against Hiruma it was more a question of endurance than nerve. She looked back at him calmly until he decided he had enough. 

Eventually Hiruma let his gaze wander. Then without warning he leaned toward her and snatched her cola right out from under her nose. 

"Tch. To something," he said, raising the glass in a lazy toast that clinked against the whiskey still clasped in Mamori's hand. One eyebrow arched skeptically. “Or nothing.” 

A tiny smile touched her face. "To something."

She lifted the drink high then put it to her mouth. Hiruma leaned an elbow against the bar counter, casually pretending to sip the cola as he watched Mamori sputter at the kick of the alcohol and struggle to swallow without coughing. When she finally regained her composure Hiruma was still looking at her. 

"You changed your hair, fuckin’ manager." 

Suddenly it was her heart that was in her throat. Hiruma had noticed her hair. Hiruma had _commented_ on her hair. After growing it out for years, this was the first time she had it so short since high school, and the layered bob was almost exactly the same cut as when they fought their way to the Christmas Bowl. Mamori coughed again to mask her blush, as if clearing her throat of some residual whiskey. "Well, it's practical. I'm teaching kids who are full-fledged experts at pulling hair. This way there's no fuss and not much for them to grab onto."

That didn’t seem to be the answer he was after. He looked at her like he was trying to read her, then he took the lime from the rim of the glass and squeezed it into the cola. The carbon reacted with a new sparkle of bubbles. "You're seeing someone," he said, tossing the rind aside.

"Who told you that?" Mamori demanded, a bit too defensively. 

"Does it matter?"

The source could have been anyone: a mutual friend or an informant from his network of subordinates. She couldn’t decide which was worse. “I like to imagine I have a modicum of privacy in my personal life, Hiruma.”

“If you meet in public, it’s public information,” he noted. "So, when's the wedding?" 

"Wedding?!" Mamori exclaimed. "Where are you getting such ideas? Sara's the one getting married— "

"—to his doubles partner. You lost your tennis partner and he lost his to that union, so now you play pairs together. So romantic."

"It's not…!" Mamori protested. She had known Ryouta for years, as an opponent and as an acquaintance. It was true that since they graduated she had been getting to know him better— he was polite and thoughtful with a dorky sense of humour that somehow always managed to make her smile— but joining forces was an arrangement of convenience since their tennis club wouldn’t accept new members until the spring. 

"You go to fancy dessert joints together," Hiruma said. 

"As I do with Kurita, and Suzuna, and various other people," she reminded him pointedly. Over the years Hiruma had repeatedly crashed her lunch plans and coffee dates, but he had never so much as stepped foot in a dessert shop. “I have many friends and acquaintances who aren’t allergic to sugar, believe it or not.” 

“Yeah? How many of them don’t see you as a mom or big sister?”

Mamori sighed in frustration and resignation. Nothing she could say could convince him and it was useless to try, but she didn’t like the idea of Hiruma directing his attention toward a perfectly innocent person. "We are not getting married," she repeated. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Her eyes locked with his, but this time she couldn’t keep up her stare. Without thinking she raised the glass to her mouth to cover her expression. The liquid burned all the way down as it descended through her insides and Hiruma threw back his head to cackle at the disgusted look that contorted her face. She pushed what was left of the whiskey— still more than half the glass— back toward him. With a smirk Hiruma scooped it up. He poured it into the glass of cola, then passed the mixed drink back to her.

"This way it's less sweet," he grinned. "That fuckin' syrup shit."

Mamori took the glass from him but couldn’t speak, not even an automatic thank you. She was too distracted by the wild triangle of teeth that she knew so well. She realized she was seeing that smile for the first time since she had arrived in San Antonio. The ache in her chest seemed to grow, overcome by the sense that she had made a mistake, letting him go to America alone.

"Hiruma…" she began, not really sure what she could say. But he was facing the other direction, yelling across the bar with demonic delight:

"Hey, another whiskey over here! This woman stole my drink!"

~*~

Neither one of them could walk straight by the time the hotel bar closed. Hiruma pretended that escorting her to the elevator was necessary to cover his own liability if she disappeared before she got to her room. This seemed like a ridiculous fabrication, but the elevator was on the way to the hotel exit anyway and it may have been the alcohol that made arguing about it seem uninteresting. They stumbled to the elevator, occasionally bumping against one another. 

As they waited for the lift to arrive, Mamori held on to Hiruma’s elbow to keep from tipping over. 

“Are you feeling better about things, at least?” she asked. He hadn’t sworn about the game or his future in hours, although he had regaled her with impressions of all his most detested teammates and other personalities from the league until she couldn’t breathe from suppressing her laughter so hard. Her ribs still ached. 

Hiruma watched the numbers count down on the display above the elevator doors. “I’d feel better if I knew…” 

After he had trailed off for a minute Mamori nudged him. “If you knew what?” 

“...if you forgive me,” he finished. 

Mamori dropped her hold on his blazer and turned her wide eyes up at him, tongue-tied. It felt almost impossible to breathe, now that the topic that they had so perfectly avoided had suddenly been raised. Hiruma kept studying the numbers, carefully not looking at her. The elevator doors opened and Hiruma stepped into the small mirrored room inside. Mamori found herself following in stunned, choked silence. 

He pressed the topmost button. She might have protested that her room was on a different floor, but she couldn’t find the words. The doors closed behind them. 

Hiruma leaned back against the handrail, watching the numbers slowly change again over the panel of buttons. His head touched the wall behind him as if he might otherwise fall over. Mamori felt her knees give out at the momentary sensation of zero gravity as the elevator began to lift and she drunkenly reached for the rail on the other side to steady herself. She knew she should say something, that she should have some response pieced together after all that time, but she had pushed the thought away so many times that she was left without words. Her blurred reflection in the polished door and the sharper ones in the mirrored walls stared out in all directions. She didn’t know where to start. 

After a few floors of silence it was Hiruma who spoke. “I can't do anything now.” 

His words were so unexpected that Mamori didn’t dare move, not blink or glance or even take another breath for fear she might break the spell. Whether it was due to her stillness or simply the alcohol, for some reason he kept speaking.

"Nothing. I’m stuck with nothing but useless words that won’t change a goddamn thing… No matter how many times I say them... No matter how much I mean them…” He broke off, as if there were a million more qualifying phrases and explanations that might spill out of his mouth but instead he forced himself to stop with a scowl. After a moment he had regained his outer mask. “Anyway… forgive me or don't. You're the only one who has anything to say about it now.”

Her entire body ached. Every thought and feeling contradicted the next and tangled in her throat. It would be impossible to explain. What could she possibly say so he might begin understand…? 

He stole a glance at her in the reflection on the walls. "You haven't forgiven me," he concluded.

"I forgive you," Mamori replied. That part came easily to her, at least. "But…"

What felt like an eternity passed with only the whir of the elevator filling the silence. 

"But?" 

Mamori took a breath and held it until she couldn’t keep it in any longer. "I can't trust you."

Hiruma blinked, precisely as a mere mortal might blink. Once. Twice. Mamori’s heart fissured, then cracked. She forced herself to scrape together some kind of explanation. 

“You were the last person on earth I would trust, that seemed so clear for so long…” she managed to say before her throat closed up. 

“Yeah,” he replied quietly after a moment to fill the silence. “Pretty much everyone knows that…”

“And then…” She struggled to find her voice. “I didn’t think I could ever trust someone as much as I trusted you...” 

Her voice broke. A glimmer was building along the bottom of her eyelids and flashed brighter as she looked up at him through the mirror. She seemed to be focused on taking deep, controlled breaths to keep her composure. 

“And then...” he prompted her.

“And then...” she repeated, leaving the rest unsaid. 

The elevator continued climbing higher, nearing the topmost floor. Hiruma studied her through the reflections. “But you came.”

“Of course...” She wiped the corner of her eye with the edge of her hand. “You worked so hard for this. I couldn’t miss it. I couldn’t.”

“And because you hoped something would change.” 

She didn't reply.

A bell dinged and the doors opened on an empty hallway with neutral wallpaper and inoffensive art. Hiruma reached forward and pressed the button that kept the doors open, holding it down and stalling the elevator there, at the top floor, as if pausing that moment in time as he waited for her response. Waiting, watching, studying her. The look in his eyes was that of a man decoding the solution to some impossible problem. 

"You don’t trust me…" Hiruma began to slowly press one button after the other on the panel, from the top floor to the bottom, progressing as if each button put a gear in his mind in motion. 29. 28. 27… When he pressed the last button he concluded, "So put me to the test, let me earn it back.”

“Test you? It’s not that simple!” Mamori replied. "I would always know… what happened. Something I thought was impossible. Something that could happen again.”

“It won’t.” 

The elevator stopped precisely one floor below the top. The doors opened with a ding on a nearly identical hallway. 

“How can you know?” Mamori demanded. 

“I’m not the same person!”

“You lost control and that part of you is still inside you somewhere!”

“No. You can test me a thousand times. I made a mistake and I fucking learned from it, okay? It won’t happen again!”

The doors closed and the elevator resumed its slow descent.

Mamori could only stare back at him, shaken by the fire in his response. The elevator dinged and the doors opened and closed. 

“How on earth am I supposed to test you?” she asked finally, despite her scepticism. 

He turned to look at her directly, without the mediation of mirrored surfaces. “We could try again.”

Mamori frowned at him. “I don’t trust you Hiruma, that is the entire problem!”

“So just pretend to trust me.”

“Are you insane?” she shot back. 

A muscle under his eye twitched and she suddenly felt guilty for those words. But he brushed them off without comment. “Do you have any better ideas?”

Mamori didn’t reply. She stared at him for a moment then looked away. 

Hiruma took a step closer. She shifted her weight back apprehensively. He reached out and touched her face, tracing the edges and framing it with his hands before he leaned in. The elevator door opened and closed as he moved in closer. Then closer. Three more floors passed with Mamori's short, anxious breaths on his mouth, as if he could feel her heart beating against it, but their lips did not touch. After the door closed the third time Hiruma let his hands fall away and he returned to his place studying the progress of the elevator. As if his presence had completely dissolved. 

Almost breathless, Mamori studied him from the corner of her eye. His expression was intense, but he didn't appear to be upset. And he hadn't kissed her. That was something. 

Her floor was the next one. Half torn, half relieved, Mamori composed herself and faced him. 

“Good night, Hiruma Youichi,” she said as simply as she could, but she failed to hide the waiver of emotion in her voice. “Everyone is cheering for you. I know you won’t let us down.” 

Hiruma did not reply except with a glower. When the doors dinged open, Mamori turned reluctantly and stepped into the hallway with a deep breath, not allowing herself to back. She followed the signs to her room number, doing her best to walk without stumbling or running into the wall. 

"I said good night, Hiruma," she reminded the footsteps behind her. 

He didn't reply. It wasn’t long before they had reached her door (she hoped it was her door). Hiruma stood beside her, waiting as she searched her bag for the key. 

Mamori looked him in the eyes, summoning all her disapproval. "Do I need to call security?" 

"If you change your mind," Hiruma leaned against the wall comfortably, apparently not concerned in the slightest. "I'll be right here."

Mamori sighed. There were two ways of dealing with him: confront or ignore. Following her after she had said goodbye was the definition of stalker behaviour which certainly deserved her full retaliation, but at that precise moment she didn't have the energy to fight about it. But aside from that, she had to respect the effort he had made, and the sincerity of it, no matter how desperate and hopeless it was. Words were merely disposable tools, that was his truth. Along with the ache in her heart a warm, healing glow bloomed as she recognised that the man she had loved for so long was still the same man, despite everything else. 

"Good night, Hiruma," she said once again, leaving him alone in the hall and locking the door behind her.

With his back pressed against the wall, Hiruma slid down until he was sitting on the floor and waited. The alcohol made everything seem dreamlike— he thought he could just hear the water running as Mamori brushed her teeth and then took a shower... but then again, there were a half dozen times he caught his eyelids closing and had to snap back to the reality of the empty hallway. Just below the drunken haze, his pulse was racing. He wanted to tell himself things couldn’t get worse, but that was a blatant lie and there was no point pretending otherwise. If this didn’t work... But there was nothing he could do except wait.

It was nearly an hour later when the door cracked open and Mamori peeked out. When she saw him sitting half asleep, arms wrapped around his knees, she shut the door quickly. A few moments later she slowly opened it again, slightly wider. 

"How drunk are you?" she asked. "Compared to last time."

Hiruma looked up at her, the back of his head bumping against the wall. "Drunk enough. But not that drunk."

Her lips pursed and she looked down the hallway, seemingly weighing that information against other factors. Hiruma watched as the gears turned and wondered for the thousandth time that night at how incredible it was that she was right there in front of him and he was not kissing her. She was wearing a cotton pyjama shorts set that was certainly not meant to be seductive— but then again, she could be wearing a complete snowsuit and he would be just as distracted. It didn't matter. He would show her who she was dealing with and take care of everything

"You will not do anything unless I say so, do you understand?" she said finally, turning her stern glare on him. 

"Gotcha," Hiruma grinned. He couldn’t help it, even though his knees threatened to give out before he even stepped through the doorway. Things could get much worse. 

Mamori pointed him to the right side of the bed and installed herself as far on the left side as she could. Hiruma removed his blazer and draped his shoulder holster over the back of the chair, Ruger Redhawk 44 Magnum and 45 Colt still hanging in the straps. After he had emptied his pockets of electronics, credit cards, random change, chewing gum, and taser guns (which technically belong to the first category), he slipped under the covers on his designated side of the bed, fully clothed— a gesture that couldn’t actually be counted as reassuring, however, thanks to the circumstances that had gotten him into the situation in the first place. 

Hiruma cursed that night again. There was no point wasting energy on bullshit like regret, but everytime he thought about what had happened and the cascade of consequences since then he nearly snarled out loud and couldn't help wishing for a time machine. He had thought… he could have sworn… it must have been because he had been replaying the way she had pulled him in that first night, anticipating it again and again, hungry for it and just basically being too fucking arrogant to pay attention after he had convinced himself she wanted him. How else could he explain it? The booze, yeah. A shitty excuse. No matter how he looked at it, it was on him.

 _But_ _for fucksake, am I actually an absolute complete fucking moron??_

Now he had to somehow undo what his dumbass past-self (with whom he had decided to cut all ties and disown) had fucked up and he literally had no bloody clue how because, lo and behold, this was real life, not a game, and however much he liked to think he could manoeuvre people based on the web of social codes that made about as much sense as the arbitrary rules of any given sport, this particular case was not so straight forward. The right smoke and mirrors could generate an initial sense of trust, as the copious repertoire of team building exercises demonstrated, but that only worked until the moment of truth. Rebuilding broken trust… he had no fucking plan for that. But that was what he was going to do. Victory or nothing.

Available psychology and interpersonal therapy resources suggested that such a project would require time. He didn't have time. Such a project might also benefit from talking about it, supposedly. But all he had were the stupid facts and nothing he could say would make them less ugly. What was there to talk about? 

On the other side of the bed Mamori’s eyes were open, staring at the ceiling with a tracking motion as if she thought it was moving, but however drunk she might have been there was no sign that she was even tempted to doze off. Hiruma stretched a hand out under the blankets, across that healthy margin of space that separated them. She had said not to do anything without being told, but the one thing he knew was there wasn’t enough time to just wait for her to come around on her own. His hand bumped against something. Her hand. He dared to hook his pinky finger over hers. 

Mamori broke her gaze from the spinning ceiling to look at him but Hiruma’s eyes were closed. Hiruma forced himself to keep breathing as if he were asleep but he couldn’t control the high-speed drumming of his pulse. He had broken the rules and was prepared to be evicted. But instead of pulling her hand away, she slipped it further under his and weaved their fingers together. Hiruma allowed the tension in his ribs to ease. He counted his breaths until he lost track.

After inhaling and exhaling over a hundred times, laying there side by side, Hiruma heard the rustle of blankets. In a moment Mamori's chin pressed against the edge of his shoulder. Through his shirt he felt her warmth on his chest as she hesitantly put one arm across him, the other trapped between their bodies, acting almost like a kind of shield, with their fingers still interlaced. 

He tried not to grin, because being a cocky bastard at that moment might actually be the stupidest thing possible. Maybe it would be victory after all. Who the hell could tell? He stretched out his free arm and let it rest across her without applying any more pressure than gravity provided.

~*~

Mamori opened her eyes exactly one minute before seven without any prompting. Keeping one arm draped around her waist, Hiruma watched her sit up to check the time on her Rocketbear travel clock on the bedside table, her hair sticking out in every direction, and then reach out to shut off the alarm before it barely made a sound. She stretched her arms in front of her, then behind. Only then did she look down at him. 

"You're awake already?" she said with a slightly confused smile.

"Keh. Already?" he replied. "With your smell all over and my cock hard as rock, obviously I didn't sleep at all."

"Oh…" She got that damned embarrassed look on her face. He realized that such facts might not make him seem very trustworthy, but how else was she supposed to understand just how well his brilliant plan was working? They had been laying there together for hours and he hadn't done anything except breathe and wonder and calculate, and of course rehearse the model numbers and specs of his inventory of semi-automatic weapons and other personal firearms.

Still, Mamori moved away. Hiruma kept his hand on her hip, slowing her departure. "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting up," she replied as if that were obvious. "I have to pack and check out, and maybe eat if there's time."

"It's too early." It would be hours before the check-out time. He sat up enough to wrap his other arm around her shoulders and hold her back.

"Hiruma, my flight is at noon," she sighed, persisting in her attempt to detach herself from his grasp. 

"Didn't you hear?" he whispered in her ear. "Your flight has been cancelled."

"Hiruma!" She shot him an accusing glare immediately, not doubting his words for a second. He grinned at her faith in his abilities.

"All flights to Japan have been cancelled," he elaborated his story, laying back against the pillow and pulling her down with him. "All connecting flights have been grounded. You have to stay…"

“You can't possibly have forgotten that my father is a pilot?” she replied with a hint of irony in her voice. But she had stopped trying to pull free. 

“He has been taken into custody,” Hiruma whispered, not missing a beat. He might have made up some reason for the fictitious arrest, but Mamori had turned in his arms so that her breath was against his neck and he absolutely could not risk opening his mouth again, at least not while things were not actively crumbling to pieces. But despite his better judgement he found himself murmuring into her bangs: "You have to stay."

“Thirty minutes,” she conceded.

A few more minutes. A few more hours. It couldn't really make a difference compared with spending one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-seven days together— over five years side by side, give or take. At least in her arms he didn't feel hollow, for maybe the first time since he left. It was a feeling he wasn’t ready to give up. Just a little longer… maybe grounding her flight wasn't a terrible idea. He tried to calculate how much time he could buy with his current network of influence and fought the urge to pull her in tighter. 

If she stayed, everything would be simple. He would be focused and unstoppable and all his dreams and plans would unfold steadily, step-by-relentless-step instead of being stalled in some hopeless bog like he had been. He hadn’t calculated that the move would affect him so much and he didn’t want to admit that it had impacted his performance, but the last six months were evidence. She was right: he should have conjured something from nothing by that point, but he hadn’t. But if she stayed… 

If she couldn’t trust him, it wouldn’t matter. But if she could, then maybe there was a chance.

"Hiruma..." Mamori propped herself up in her elbows to look down into his face, her eyes filled with so many emotions he couldn’t properly identify them. She touched his bangs to push them back. Her fingers trailed over his face gently. Then she leaned in and let her lips brush his.

He held his breath. If he kissed her back, would he ruin everything? But his mouth had already responded without a care for the consequences. She dipped her face closer and their connection intensified. Hovering over him meant she was more than free to break away at any moment— he was almost entirely at her mercy. Hiruma let one hand caress her face. The tip of her tongue touched his lips and his fingers slipped into her hair, willing himself not to pull her under him. 

If this was a test then not plunging his hands under her clothes or pressing her flesh against his would be the proof of his good intentions. Instead he kept one hand at her chin and let the fingers of his free hand trace over her shoulders and down her side so lightly it might only register as a tickle through the thin pyjama fabric. He followed her outline as they kissed until he came to the end of his reach, grazing across the skin of her thigh just past the hem of her shorts. She shifted her weight— he swore it was in response— moving her leg over his and planting her knee between his legs. From this angle she was kneely directly over him, only touching where their mouths and hands connected, but now he could reach all the way down to her knee. He had been strategically avoiding the parts of her body that his research had suggested were the most responsive to demonstrate his interest without seeming overly greedy, leaving her breasts and her neck and the back of her knee untouched. But when he drew his fingers up her inner thigh, her body shivered and her mouth broke momentarily from his with a gasp.

“Fuuck…” Hiruma moaned against the intensifying ache in his groin, nearly forgetting the plan. His long, slender fingers crept up into the leg of her shorts, with his thumb trailing slowly behind to prolong the connection to that sensitive stretch of skin. “I want to make you feel everything.” 

He searched her eyes for a sign as he reached the curve of her hip and before he realized it he had crossed under the edge of her panties. Breathing heavily, he stalled his progress to wait for a response. She gazed back at him with a sigh and shifted her pelvis until he was touching the warm, wet triangle between her legs. “Yes,” she replied with a shudder before returning to devour his mouth again. 

The involuntary rock of her hip forced his fingers deeper, parting her lips and sliding inside her easily, and her body moved instinctively in response. Hiruma groaned and released his hand from her face so he could guide her hips against his. They were groin to groin with his fingers somehow still serving her, and even though at that point he was completely sober he gave zero fucks that he was about to cum in his pants because he had been ready for hours and having her on top of him was hot as hell. Anyway, if he had anything to do with it, she was certainly going to do the same shortly. 

The next coherent memory he had was Mamori murmuring his name, looking down into his eyes again. Her short hair hung down and framed her face like feathers. She was so close, and she wasn't frowning or looking at him like he had made a mistake. 

“Hey,” he looked back up at her, content. 

That feeling lasted the span of three breaths.

“I have to go...” 

At the airport, Mamori was visibly relieved that her flight had truly not been cancelled. She checked her watch for the thousandth time before looking back at him with forlorn eyes. Hiruma stared at her, trying to think of what he could say, searching for the magic words that would keep her from leaving.

"I have some shit to take care of here," he began. It wasn’t goodbye. "I probably won't be done before this contract is up. Another season at least… maybe more…" He let the statement hang in the air.

 _You have to stay._ He couldn't ask again. If she loved him she would read his mind. If she loved him she wouldn't go back to that life that she kept living day after day without him, leaving only that hollow ache in the absence of her presence beside him. She had come all that way to watch a stupid game. She could stay a little longer. A couple months, half a year... 

Mamori stood with one hand on the handle of her carry-on bag, wearing the exact expression she always got just before she was about to cry. Blinking furiously. Hiruma hooked an arm around the top of her head and pulled her into him so he couldn’t see her face. He rested his chin on her hair and felt her deep, unsteady breathing against his collar. 

An announcement echoed over the airport intercom, indistinguishable from the others. 

"I have to go," Mamori said in a whisper. 

She said something about cheering for him and encouraging him to do his best which didn't register as words. He must have let his arms loosen. He must have said goodbye. Or maybe he hadn’t. She was becoming smaller as she moved into the distance. He couldn't move. She looked back at him before she disappeared past the security gate. 

Then she was gone. 

"Dammit!!" Hiruma sent a row of suitcase carts flying. The travelers passing by him stared and scurried out of the way. A security guard approached, reciting some kind of warning. 

He could stop the flight. He could cut the power to the airport. He could kidnap the pilot. What would it gain? Another hour? For what? If she stayed, it would mean leaving her family, her friends, her career, her entire life, to come to a place with none of those things, to console a person with whom she no longer shared anything in common except some kind of mutual emotional hallucination. Alone, Hiruma faced the flaw in his plan that he must have always known: trust or no trust, the only person who would benefit if she stayed was him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh... so....
> 
> One of my projects for this text was to experiment with some sexy-time writing but it is hard for me to not to just delete all of it!!! I am so into them as a couple but my skills in this department are not strong :( In particular, trying to write from Hiruma's perspective for this kind of thing... *le sigh* what a challenge....! (╥﹏╥) 
> 
> I am not sure why I always envision Hiruma's experience with the Armadillos being horrible. In many ways I think he would be much happier in the US and is the kind of person who would probably never return to Japan if he didn't have so many close friends there. 
> 
> Also I want confess that I directly plagiarized the idea of Hiruma crashing Mamori's lunches with other people from another author, and once I track down who it was I will credit you :P !!!  
> [[*** ETA: It was from [Kick Drum Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645150/) by [Rocketbear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocketbear/pseuds/Rocketbear)!]]


	5. Chapter 5

“To ask this question.”

Hiruma's eyes were fixed on her, taking in any subtle shift in her expression as she stared back at him over her silk-covered shoulder, but the muscles in her face remained as tense as they had been. 

Mamori remembered waiting. It had been a year and a half since he returned from America, after two full seasons in the pro league. While he was away, her tennis partner's courtship had advanced from coffee and desserts to orchestra tickets and get-away weekends. When Ryouta proposed the first time, on the anniversary of their first doubles match, Mamori hadn't been able to answer yes or no. She could only say she wasn't ready. Ryouta said he could wait until she was. 

Mamori remembered waiting, attending her friends' weddings, celebrating the birth of their children, and wondering when the aching would stop. Even though she hadn’t promised, at least not out loud, she had sworn in her heart that she would wait for Hiruma to come back. It was the only way she could convince herself to board the plane. He had said he would come back. Some part of her that could not be reasoned with clung to that, and so she waited. 

Hiruma had only just returned when Ryouta proposed the second time, on the same midsummer day as before. Hiruma had reappeared with guns in the air, all maniacal cunning and easy-self confidence, and promptly wedged his way back into her life. Impressively, Ryouta had not retreated, but then again (nearly as impressive) Hiruma never confronted him directly, either. Once again she found she could not give an answer one way or another. 

Mamori spent the next year waiting, torn. Just like in highschool, just like in college, Hiruma organized group parties or tagged along on Mamori's lunches with Sena or the others, but the occasions that they found themselves alone together were unplanned and brief, and always paralyzed by the tension that remained alive between them. In the fall, Hiruma had mysteriously become a crossing guard near her school, to the children’s delight and to the horror of the staff. But even if she had been able to clear the permanent lump in her throat while crossing those four lanes of traffic beside him, there was nothing to say— not in front of her coworkers and her students and the parents who picked their children up from school. For his part, Hiruma rarely shut up, inciting children to mischief and trying to convince Anezaki-sensei to quit her job to work for one of his dubious money-making schemes.

And so months passed, side by side. It was not quite so painful as when he had been away, but in some ways it was just as hard to bear. 

Her mother reminded her that she was not getting any younger, and Ryouta could not possibly wait forever.

Meg, who had become the expert and confidante in matters of romance even as she herself remained staunchly single, mused that a heartbreak could take as long to heal as the time spent together.

Sara, then pregnant with her second child, told her that love was not something predestined, but something built through actions as much as with words.

Maria wondered if the most important quality in a partner was that they did not take you for granted.

Suzuna said she should listen to her heart and trust it. Mamori’s heart just ached and ached and ached and had nothing coherent to say. 

Mamori remembered when she finally said yes, the third time Ryouta proposed. Hiruma had been back over a year by then and she forced herself to face the fact that she had been waiting like a fool. Hiruma disappeared shortly after, only to show up on the morning of her wedding day. 

“It's a little late, Hiruma,” she replied, her eyes gleaming in the light of the lamp on the dresser. She carefully adjusted one of the flowers in her reflection. Her voice fell so it was almost too soft to hear. “It's much too late for that question now.”

There was silence again; he kept leaning against the doorframe and she kept gazing into the mirror, trying to pretend it didn't matter that he was there, that she could carry on with the preparations. 

“If you had chosen some other guy…” Hiruma began, trying to look at anything else, but in the end his eyes fell back on her. “...he would have made you unhappy. In so many different ways.”

Mamori picked up the fan from the tableau before her and turned it over in her hands. She studied it with feigned interest. Most importantly, she could not ruin the makeup that the older woman had so carefully applied. After a choked moment Mamori looked back at him. “I would have made you unhappy, too.”

“Tch…” Hiruma scoffed, but he didn't look away. “Who said anything about me?”

It was too much to hope that they might just once have an honest conversation. Not that she could really expect him to change. But just this once… 

“You just had to come, didn't you?” The words had formed in anger, but tears welled up in her eyes anyway. “Couldn't you just let me have this one day?”

“This day you've been dreaming about since forever, or something like that?” he replied, sarcastic. Behind her a western-style wedding gown was hanging from the wardrobe, a puff of gauzy chiffon and lace ready to be worn at the reception in the afternoon. Its silhouette resembled the dress she had worn for their high school sports day costume race. While everyone else had looked ridiculous, and Hiruma had indeed selected all their outfits in the spirit of mockery, Mamori’s costume seemed perfectly natural on her. 

“Yes. To have a family, to build something that's mine!” Mamori breathed with the faintest trace of a sob on its edge. But below that, her voice was fiery. “Isn't that what you would want me to do? Follow my dreams?”

“Tch. I don't have anything to do with this.”

“So what are you doing here?” she shot back, her eyes fierce and glistening. 

Hiruma said nothing. For a moment it looked like he might be gathering his thoughts to speak, but finally he shrugged. “I'm not here.”

He turned to leave, but her voice made him pause halfway through the doorway, in mid-step. 

“Hiruma.” 

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. She looked him in the eyes.

“You never asked.”

The words were an explanation and an accusation, and seeped with bitter disappointment and resignation all at once. 

The words made him pause, a foot still through the door. His eyes did not leave hers, intense but inscrutable. The only part of him that moved was his lungs in long, careful, controlled breaths.

“Is it too late?”

Mamori turned her eyes down to the fan that she held between her fingers, her eyelashes angled so that the glitter along her eyelids didn't spill over. Her heart was aching and that made it hard to breathe. She lifted her head, recomposing herself, and carefully placed the fan on the glass top of the dressing table. But as she did so, the other accessories beside it began to rattle, as did the mirror. In an instant the vibration had pulsed through the room. They both knew what it meant. The emergency signal that blared from their phones simultaneously only confirmed it.

 _Earthquake._

Her heart racing, Mamori gathered the layers of fabric in her arms and rushed to the doorway beside Hiruma in a rustle of silks. Not many things scared her, but a lifetime of emergency preparation drills could not shake the deep, instinctive fear that the earth might just open up and swallow everyone, no matter how many times she had felt the ground tremble before.

“And you were just about to blame me for ruining your wedding day...” Hiruma muttered as he crouched down, holding his useless weapon against the floor.

Mamori didn’t seem to have heard him. She knelt beside him and clasped her hands together, praying that it was only a lone tremor. 

Instead, the room rumbled again, harder and longer. The floor under their feet lurched violently in every direction, knocking them over. It was long enough and powerful enough that Mamori felt her stomach in her throat, seized with terror. Hiruma was crouched beside her in the doorway, one arm over her shoulders and his torso covering her head. Everything that had been on the dresser was ejected to the floor among the spare flowers, and the freestanding oak wardrobe walked forward nearly a foot before falling over, pinning the reception gown beneath it. 

Then they heard a woman's voice cry out from the floor below. 

“Fire! _Fire!"_

Mamori turned toward Hiruma with terrified eyes. 

“Hurry up, fuckin’ marshmallow!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her up, then raced out of the room without a pause.

“Hiruma, wait! I can’t…” 

The shaking had slowed to mere tremors, but Mamori was tripping over the padded edges of the long, draping robe. Hiruma was already halfway down the stairs but was dragged back by his grip on her wrist. Black smoke was beginning to creep up the stairwell from the kitchen below. 

“Tch!!!” Hiruma marched back up the stairs in a fury. “You do know the whole reason we got rid of these outfits was because women kept dying in fires, right!?” 

Mamori had planned to shed the more cumbersome outer robe once he let go of her arm so she could more easily carry the hem of the trailing kimono she wore beneath it as they ran. But before she knew it Hiruma was beside her, his gun slung across his back, pulling her legs out from under her and lifting her and all her many layers into his arms. 

“Mamori!?” Her mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs with a handkerchief over her mouth. “Mamori!! Thank god, hurry!” 

Hiruma had not wasted any time and they had nearly reached the main floor by the time Mamori could call out: “Mama! Just run!”

The three of them burst out the front doors of the house and collapsed on the road just past the gate where the stylist was already waiting, watching the dark plumes leak from the window at the back of the building in shock.

“Sweetie… I’m sorry…” Mamori’s mother coughed. “The stove… and something… it just spread so fast…”

Mamori’s eyes blinked open, but she couldn’t see anything. Only Hiruma’s shirt, as she had tucked her face against his chest without realizing it as they ran— as he ran. And he was still holding her in his arms… or maybe he just couldn’t let go because she was still holding on to him tightly. She told herself she should loosen her grip, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. The earthquake. The fire. They could have died. It happened so fast. They could be dead. 

“Hiruma…” she whispered, her breath a white cloud of frost that melted into his chest. “Are you okay?”

“Tch…” he muttered back. “Worst touchdown of my fucking life.”

He adjusted his arms enough to look down into her face. Her hair had come loose on one side, the flowers still caught in the copper strands that looped against his shoulder. As she looked back up at him the ground shook again and she tightened her grip on his arms. 

“You can’t blame me for this,” he warned her.

His defensiveness made her suspicious. “ _Should_ I blame you?”

“I’m flattered,” he grinned, “but sadly I don’t have influence over tectonic plates just yet.”

Mamori watched him carefully. That devious smile reminded her of his millions of schemes and powers of persuasion. “Hiruma.... Were you planning to stop me?”

“Not even a _thank you_? I just saved your life, probably.” 

The faint sound of sirens in the distance grew deafening. 

“It seems like bad luck, to get married on a day like this.” Hiruma noted with a glance back toward the smoke, seeming more pleased than was appropriate given the situation.

“Hiruma. Answer me.”

“Most people wouldn’t risk it.” 

“ _Were you going to stop my wedding?"_

He stared at her, straight in the eyes, at such a close range she almost shivered. His mocking tone dissolved– when he answered her, his voice had new gravity. “Doing something like that would have no meaning.”

She stared back at him, barely breathing, understanding the truth in the depths of her bones. And as with every instance where his principles were exposed, she couldn’t help but think how much she loved him. 

“Thank you…” she breathed, pressing her forehead against his shoulder and tightening her arms around him. 

“Bad luck, good luck, who believes in luck… but still...” Hiruma mused as the firefighters attached their hoses with the distraught women looking on, hands clasped. The neighbors had gathered in the street to watch the drama, including the Kobayakawa family, already dressed and ready to attend the ceremony. 

“Fuckin’ marshmallow woman,” Hiruma muttered into Mamori’s hair. “Just marry me.”

“What…?!” Mamori pulled back to look him in the face. “What about making each other miserable?”

“That’s what you like about me in the first place. Anyway, greater powers have spoken.”

“You don’t believe in higher powers!” she reminded him. 

“Richters. Greater magnitudes of force…” His grin faded into a line. “I'm sick of waiting and waiting for you to realize that you can't live without me.”

His eyes clenched shut and he tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer so that his expression was hidden from view of the onlookers behind her face. 

“I kept forcing myself to let you do whatever you thought it was that would make you happy— to somehow fucking respect that, and not make your future about what I wanted, and even though I thought was going to fuckin' kill me, I kept waiting. I kept trying to think of some way to bind you to me. But I kept telling myself that whatever you chose, that was fine. That’s what I kept telling myself: it was fine.” Hiruma’s measured voice strangely desperate. “And then…” 

He broke off for one heartbreaking instant, the length of a half-breath, then resumed in full force. 

“I'm scared shitless that I made a mistake, not kidnapping you the second I got back, not taking out all the competition immediately, not pulling out all the guns and threats and gifts and bribes. I made a plan and a choice and it didn’t work out the way I wanted and— And I’m afraid... that I’ll…”

Mamori remembered waiting. 

And she remembered Hiruma’s appearance in the doorway at the very last possible moment, and the equal parts anger and hope that had filled her. 

“...that you will regret not asking?” she finished for him. 

His breath against her ear was his only response for a moment, ragged and strained. “Why the fuck are the only things I regret in my life always somehow about you?”

Mamori bit her lip and pressed her face harder against his chest to fight back the sudden tears that rushed up within her, but her shoulders still shook. She struggled to take a breath and choked out the words: “Are you going to ask?” 

Hiruma looked down at her, stunned. Then in an instant he stood abruptly, setting her on her feet with one arm still around her waist as he filled the air with a barrage of bullets from his semiautomatic in the other. 

“Hey!! Listen up!” Hiruma called out to the team of firefighters. “I’m asking this fuckin’ marshmallow to marry me!”

“Hiruma!” Mamori protested. “They’re putting out a fire!”

Mamori’s mother gaped in horror, along with the stylist and half the neighbors, but a few of the firefighters near the truck looked toward them and laughed. 

“Aren’t you a little late?” one said, nodding toward Mamori's bridal attire.

“Well, maybe she just doesn’t want to wait a minute longer!” another replied with a hearty chuckle. 

Hiruma grinned at Mamori. “So, fuckin’ marshmallow?”

“It’s true, you are late,” she sighed and looked up at the sky, impossibly blue for such a terrible day. She was fully aware he had still not properly asked. “And I don't want to wait anymore.”

“Mamori!” Mamori’s mother rushed toward them, panicked. “What are you saying?” 

Hiruma produced a radio transponder from his jacket and muttered into the receiver. “Yo, Code Creampuff. Over.” 

“Roger that,” a distorted voice replied. 

“What about Ryouta-kun?” her mother demanded. “And his family!?”

"Ryouta… I—" Mamori's chest tightened at the thought. Her sweet, patient fiancé, who didn't deserve such a betrayal. She had been such an idiot, and had caused everyone so much pain. “I will humbly apologize to him, and to everyone, but…” 

The air filled with the rhythmic roar of rotary propellers as a Huey UH-1D military helicopter appeared in the sky and descended toward them. A rope ladder swung from the chopper’s side hatch, dangling closer.

“Mamori!!??” Her mother was pale, with Mrs. Kobayakawa at her side supporting her against the downwash winds from the helicopter. Their elegant black kimono flapped wildly in the powerful gusts of the blades. “ _But_ what? You aren’t making any sense!!”

Hiruma reached out to grab the ladder, then adjusted his hold around Mamori. “You ready, love of my fuckin' life?” 

Mamori looked from the terrifying escape plan to Hiruma’s wicked grin and then back at her forlorn mother.

“I’m truly, deeply sorry…” Mamori’s heart still ached, but its message was clear. She wrapped her arms around Hiruma’s neck and prayed they would not fall. “…but a higher power has intervened.”  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading to the end. 
> 
> Originally this story was my attempt at a short, single-chapter fic but... I guess I am a lost cause for short things??!!! 
> 
> Anyway, it was a fun project, although it was originally supposed to be a sweet (and maybe a bit spicy?) love story to recover from the darker content of [Alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18403895)... but then this got unexpectedly dark too! ( : ౦ ‸ ౦ : ) 
> 
> Thanks for all your sweet comments and encouragement along the way. ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡


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